


You'll Never Be Alone

by intergalxtic



Category: Firebringer - Team StarKid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Gen, Minor Character Death, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:48:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26526226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intergalxtic/pseuds/intergalxtic
Summary: “Fine. Fine. If you don’t want my help, that’s fine.” Jemilla bites back a sob. “But don’t forget what I’ve done for you.”She looks around the silent crowd. Heat crawls up her neck, tears well in her eyes. She runs away before she can cry.Jemilla, the princess of Driftford Kingdom, meets Zazzalil at eight. Who knew she would change her life?
Relationships: Jemilla & Molag (Firebringer), Jemilla & Zazzalil (Firebringer), Jemilla/Zazzalil (Firebringer), Keeri & Zazzalil (Firebringer)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 35





	1. Flame That Came For Me

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! welcome to my fic!!
> 
> chapter title from "Fire Meet Gasoline" by Sia

The sun shines through the grey clouds, despite the time of year. The seasons never seem to affect Driftford Kingdom, a thick layer always hanging over the sky. However this is the warmest day of the year, and all the children from around the village are out to play. 

Jemilla steps out of the gates to the palace, hand-in-hand with her Mother, Molag. Molag is the Queen, ruling the Kingdom through its battles and wars, leads her down the pathway down to the town. They like to go down once a week, to see how the people were doing, and let Jemilla make friends. 

Her tiny heart pounds excitedly as she skips down the dirt track, kicking at the pebbles that get stuck in her sandals. The town is big, many exciting experiences and knowledge waiting for her. She has always wondered why they walk instead using horses and carriages like her old Kingdom. Molag says it’s to gain the trust of the people, but Jemilla is yet to see a horse anywhere, so she’s not so sure that’s the only reason.

Ignoring the gravel in her shoe, Jemilla pulls Molag along, almost in the town. They head past the stalls and onto the rocky pavement. Two-story buildings line the streets, covered in colourful flowers, vines crawling up the walls. 

So she doesn’t get lost, her grip tightens on Molag’s hand, darting through crowds of people, who bow before them. That’s another thing Jemilla doesn’t understand, something that never happened back then. 

They eventually stop at a run-down store on the edge, stones falling off the side. There is a rather concerned-looking man and woman standing outside, a little girl hiding behind her. She has hair the colour of chestnuts, held in ponytails by black ribbons tied in bows. She gives a shy smile and Jemilla waves in reply and immediately assumes they are the same age. 

The little girl tugs on the woman’s dress and whispers something to her, then shuffles over to Jemilla, and holds her hand out. Jemilla looks up at Molag, who nods and nudges her off. So she takes her hand, and she is off with the girl, into an open field, with a large oak tree. 

“I’m Zazzalil,” The little girl says once they arrive. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Jemilla,” She replies confidently, like how Molag taught her. 

“Jemilla? The princess?” Zazzalil’s jaw drops. 

“Yeah.” She plops down under the tree, spreading her fingers through the prickly grass, crossing her legs under her cream-coloured dress. 

“Are you even allowed to play with me?” The sound of her voice is enough to make Jemilla pout. Why wouldn’t they be allowed?

“Of course you are. I don’t see why you wouldn’t be.”

“Because my parents are merchants, and your mother is the queen. Are you sure she wants you around me?” Zazzalil eases herself down in front of Jemilla, imitating her stance. 

“Molag thinks it’s good for me to make friends, because I wasn’t allowed in my old Kingdom.” She explains, Zazzalil tilts her head. 

“Old Kingdom?”

“I was taken away because it was a very bad one.”

Her old Kingdom, The Kingdom of Reseth, had fallen to ruins. The folk no longer respected the royals, scheming to take over. Violent riots were led, fires blazed from the outskirts and into the town. They had called upon Driftford to help regain control, but they were too late. The King and Queen were already dead, killed by their own people.

Only four years old at the time, Jemilla had hidden herself in her closet. She hid behind the dresses and cried, asking herself what she was going to do. If she showed herself, she would be killed as well. 

At some point, she was found by Molag, who was doing a sweep of the palace. She told her kind words and reassurance, wiped the tears off her cheeks, and took her in. It was a long journey, Jemilla didn’t know where they were going. All she was told was that she is still a princess, now of another land.

“I have been here for four years.”

“Hm.” Zazzalil mumbles, biting her lip. A moment of silence passes, then she jumps up to her feet. “Do you want to play warriors with me?”

“Warriors?”

“Me and Keeri play it sometimes. We pretend to fight!” Zazzalil beams, holding out her hand. “Want to play?”

Jemilla squints, then takes her hand. “Sure.”

“Then wield your sword.” Zazzalil mimes drawing her sword dramatically. 

“Okay,” Jemilla copies her, remembering the army training she has witnessed. She imagines the sword in her hand to be beautiful, bedazzled with jewels, swirly patterns engraved on the handle. 

She swings the imaginary sword around, Zazzalil giggles loudly as she swings back. They repeat their motions, stepping further away from the tree. Jemilla can see her getting tired, seizing her opportunity to strike. 

“Hah!” Jemilla fake-stabs her, Zazzalil bringing her hand to her forehead, and charismatically falling down. “I win!”

“You’re good.” Zazzalil says, out of breath. Jemilla drops to her knees next to her, her dress becoming dirtier. 

“Thank you.” Jemilla says politely, her hands clasped together. “You did well too. How old are you?”

“I’m eight!”

“Same!” All of the children Jemilla had met had either been much older or younger than her. The two bask in the comfortable quiet, until Jemilla can hear her name being called.

“Jemilla! Time to go home!”

“Coming!” Jemilla calls back, then whispering a quick “No!”

“You have to leave?” Zazzalil sits up and frowns, when Jemilla nods. “Oh.”

“Come on! Be quick!” Molag yells, Jemilla panics. 

“Here.” She fumbles with the clasp of her gold necklace, removing it and placing it gently in Zazzalil’s palm. It has a heart shape hanging from the small chain. “Have this. I hope we meet again someday.”

“I hope so too.” Zazzalil smiles, closing her fist around the gift. “Goodbye, Jemilla.”

“Goodbye, Zazzalil.” Jemilla whips around, and runs back to Molag, who stands alone. 

* * *

Jemilla chats the entire way back to the palace, Molag listening contentedly. She adores how she always has something to say, even if in other Kingdoms think otherwise. 

Molag prides herself on running the Kingdom fairly, given everyone equal opportunities and listening to the people. Even with the raging wars, she isn’t worried for the future, because Jemilla is already showing potential to be a great Queen one day. 

The night is dark, and Jemilla is sleeping, When Molag gets a letter. It’s from the opposing Kingdom, this sends chills down her spine. 

_ Dear Queen Molag of Driftford Kingdom. _

_ I regret to inform you that this is our turning point. You have failed to keep up trades, among other aspects, as you are too busy training for battles. We will now see how great you are, because we are declaring war. We will be taking you down with your lousy Kingdom. _

_ Signed, _

_ King Rowan, Kingdom of Cleves _

This is bad.

Very, very bad. 

The next morning, Molag gave Jemilla her first sword, much like how Jemilla had given her necklace to Zazzalil. She kisses her forehead and whispers:

“I will do everything I can to keep you safe, and you will learn how to use this. This land is worth fighting for, and one day, you might.”

“When I’m the Queen, there will be no wars.” Jemilla declares with tears in her eyes, gripping the handle of the  _ real _ sword.

“Always the peacemaker.” Molag chuckles. “Farewell, Jemilla. I love you.” 

“I love you too.”

  
  


When Jemilla is allowed, she rushes down the town to find Zazzalil. She finds everyone standing on the streets, filling them to the brim. So much noise, too many people shouting. 

She wraps her arms around herself, shrinking so she can fit through the gaps between strangers. The ground is hard against her tired feet. 

“Jemilla? What are you doing here?” Zazzalil’s mother asks her once she gets to the run-down shop. “Shouldn’t you be at the palace?”

“I want to talk to Zazzalil.” She mumbles, feeling a tap on her shoulder. 

“I’m here.” She says, her face is blotchy, likely from crying.

“There’s going to be a war.”   


“I know. My Mummy never did the training, but my daddy did and now he’s going.” Zazzalil trembles. “I don’t want him to go.”

“Molag is going too. I’m learning how to real-sword fight, maybe I can teach you.” Jemilla offers, Zazzalil nods eagerly. 

“Then we can protect each other.”

“And everyone else too.”


	2. You Won't See me Fall Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome!!
> 
> warning: minor character death

It’s been four years, and the war hasn’t come to a close yet. 

Jemilla writes letters to Molag every week, and is still waiting for a reply to her most recent one. It seems like each week something new happens, something worth telling. She wishes to say it in person, she prays that one day, she will.

She and Zazzalil are now close friends, whenever Jemilla goes down to the town, they meet. Their favourite spots are the tree in the field and the fountain in the middle of the square. 

As she's grown up, she’s become more and more recognisable. Even at twelve, she does much for the community by helping out with gardens, paying for things that people may not be able to afford. She never wears her proper attire out to the village, usually a simple dress and a tiara holding back her brown curls. She prefers not to create a spectacle about herself, as much as she loves the praise she receives.

She is about to head down to find Zazzalil, when the butler comes up to her.

“Princess, we have news.” He says solemnly.

“What kind of news?” Jemilla’s chest tightens in an all too familiar way. 

“The war has now ended, but not without casualties.” 

“Of course,” She bites her lip, praying for the best. 

“Molag has died. The King and her were dueling, they killed each other.”

Jemilla’s heart stops, her eyes widening. “What?”

“I am so sorry for your loss. The funeral will be held in two days.” 

“Thank you for telling me.” She forces herself to say, stumbling back to a wooden chair. The butler leaves Jemilla alone in the room, but she doesn’t cry. Not yet. 

The funeral was a blur. The entire court and many civilians came, Jemillas was grateful that this many people cared. She had never seen so many people in black, so many sad faces. She did not see Zazzalil in the crowd, she presumes it’s because she is still mourning the loss of her father. 

They got the news a week ago, and Zazzalil sobbed into Jemilla’s shoulder for hours. Now it’s her turn to do the sobbing.

Her speech isn’t supposed to be sad. She wanted to highlight the amazing things she has done for the Kingdom, for her. The good times. How she often called off the battles for the holidays. 

She isn’t supposed to be sad. Molag wouldn’t want that, right? So why does she feel so guilty?

She isn’t supposed to break down. Not in front of everyone, she’s the princess, for god’s sake. She is meant to be put together. And she definitely isn’t meant to run away. 

The people speak so loud, she can still hear it when she’s far away. Maybe they’re sparking rumours, who knows, and who cares. Jemilla certainly tries not too.

By the time the night falls, the waterfalls from her eyes have run dry. She lays in her bed, unmoving. She is unsure if she can ever move again, not after how she humiliated herself. 

However, if she doesn't move, she will never see Zazzalil again. She doesn’t want that. The only thing she wants is to see her. 

_ “In the wake of Molag’s passing, we must abide by her law until the young Princess comes of age.” _

  
  


* * *

  
  


Jemilla slouches under the tree, one book next to her, another open in her hands. Reading is one of her favourite pastimes, transferring her away to somewhere where everything will turn out okay. 

Everytime someone asks her what is going to happen to the Kingdom, she wants to scream “I am only twelve! I can’t run a Kingdom!” But she has no choice other than to say she will do what needs to be done.

“Princess!” A familiar voice says, Jemilla snaps her head up, and instantly smiles. Zazzalil.

“You don’t need to call me that, I’ve told you.” She laughs, closing her book onto her thumb, holding her place in the chapter.

“Okay, Your Highness,” Zazzalil smirks, sitting down next to her.

“You know that’s worse.”

“I’m just messing with you, J-Mills!” She nudges her softly.

“What have you been up to all day?” Jemilla asks, leaning her head against Zazz’s shoulder. 

“Keeri had to help her mum at the market, so I hung out with Emberly, Grant and Tiblyn, we went down to the river.” Zazzalil explains. 

Emberly, Grant and Tiblyn are a part of their wider group, along with Schwoopsie, Keeri, Chorn, SB, and Ducker. Jemilla met them through Zazzalil, they have become a little family. And although she won’t admit it herself, she does a lot for them.

“You had fun?”

“Yeah,” Zazzalil nods, noticing the book. “Whaddya doing?”

“Reading. I have a spare book in case I finished this one, but you can read it if you like?” She offers, Zazzalil visibly hesitates.    


“Uh, sure.” She mumbles, snatching the book. 

“Enjoy.” Jemilla nods, flipping hers back open. The words are oddly comforting, especially because she’s read them so many times, she always knows what will happen next. 

She’s trying to focus on the story, but Zazzalil is making that difficult by staring at the first page, even though she’s had the book for five minutes. Her brown eyes are fixated, seemingly only on the first word. Then it clicks.

“You can’t read, can you.” 

Zazzalil shakes her head, playing with the hem of her skirt. “Mother didn’t send me to school. She said I wouldn’t need it, because I will become a gatherer or a hunter.”

“It’s still a good skill to have! You’re very smart, and if you learn to read, you can become smarter!” Jemilla pipes up, forgetting about the book. “I can teach you! And if you learn how to write, we can send letters to each other!” 

“You already do so much for me, though.” Zazzalil blushes, wavy hair falling in front of her face. 

“And I’m always happy to do more.” Jemilla brushes the strands so she can see her eyes. “So. When do you want to start?”

A month later, Zazzalil can read and write easy sentences. Jemilla should have known that she would be so quick, she is a fast learner after all. Letters are sent back and forth, and Jemilla keeps every single one. 

She loves how loopy her handwriting is, and the little drawings Zazzalil places in the margins, flowers and tiny landscapes. In admiration, Jemilla attempts to put in her own, they never look as good as Zazz’s. 

The sun sets, turning the clouds pink. The two of them lay on the grass, gazing into the sky, whispering and giggling into each other’s ears. They had just finished their “fight”, which ended with Jemilla tripping over her long dress, and Zazzalil winning. 

Jemilla tried to argue that Zazzalil was wearing pants, finding the argument unsuccessful. Though, as the stars come up, she realises she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care if Zazzalil can or can’t write. She doesn’t care what she ends up working as. She doesn’t care about any of that.

She doesn’t care if she wins or loses (okay, maybe a little).

The only thing that matters is Zazzalil beside her. 

  
  


The path up to the memorial Jemilla had asked to be built is long and dreary. The rain had soaked right through her cloak and hood, mud stuck to the soul of her boots. She is alone, much to her dislike. She is confused as to why she is allowed copious amounts of freedom, in other places, she knows it isn’t like that. So she savours it.

The wood of the bridge creaks under her feet, loud enough to echo through the trees. Fog clouds her vision, though she can see her destination, and she is close. Just as she reaches it, she second guesses herself.

_ This is a terrible idea. You’re going to start crying again. _

_ But I have too! This is the closest I’ll get to talking to her again. _

The memorial is a large sword going into the ground, names of all the civilians that fought and died. Flowers were planted beside it, but the rain seems to be too much for them. 

Next to the memorial, there is a grave for Molag. Jemilla kneels in front of the stone, placing flowers gently down. It reads, “Molag, the War Master. Died defended her Kingdom. Rest In Peace.”

“Hi, Molag. I miss you.” Jemilla starts, taking a shaky breath in. “And I have something to tell you.” 

The wind howls, her heart skips a beat.  _ Just say it. _

“Zazzalil told me that girls can like girls.” She whispers. “And… I might be young, but…”

She pauses. Does she really want to do this? It’s not like Molag can actually say anything. 

“I do like boys, but I like girls too.”

The rain slows, Jemilla bites her lip to stop herself from grinning. Maybe it will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!
> 
> feel free to leave a comment :))
> 
> i hope you enjoyed!!


	3. Wash Away My Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything good hurts once in a while, but this feels different.

“I don’t understand why you won’t take the deal!” The Duke exclaims to Jemilla, who is gazing out the carriage window. 

They were on their way back from an event further inland, a Ball with many of the other Kingdoms, as well as a meeting to discuss marketing. Jemilla was still invited, even though she’s only fifteen. She even met a potential suitor and trade partner, and she turned him down. 

“Because I don’t like him.” She answers simply. “I think in the future I will hold him to that trade, though. His economy sounds like he could need it.”

“You’re at the age to start thinking about marriage, Jemilla.”

“I’ll know when I’m ready.” She shifts around on her seat. Her dress may have been comfortable at the start, now it’s really starting to bug her. The sleeves are itchy and it’s ever so slightly too long, at least the corset was adjusted properly, unlike last time.

The Kingdom is hours away, the carriage is boring, especially with the Duke jabbering on about how she has to start thinking about how she will lead. The thing is, she’s done a lot of thinking. 

The older she got, the more she realised how… not-so-great Molag led. Of course Molag did amazing things, and not only for Jemilla, but the lies. The wars and feuds that could have been settled peacefully. 

That’s how Jemilla will lead. Peacefully. Everyone will do as they’re told, work as hard as they can for a better future. Everyone will be equal, and this starts with her encouraging, gaining their trust like Molag said she was doing. Jemilla is going to do a better job, she knows it. 

She will make it a better Kingdom. For the citizens, for her friends, for Zazzalil. 

Zazzalil is now a hunter/gatherer, like her mother had intended. She would come back from the forest with blisters and cuts, and always much food to sell. It is hard work, and sometimes, she doesn’t enjoy it.

“Can I just take a day off?” She would ask either Jemilla or her mum, every time getting the same answers.

“No.”

The trees that reel by get more and more familiar, until they are back at the Kingdom. The sky is getting darker, the moon is already shining, without a cloud in sight. Her eyes are getting droopy, she’s been awake since sunrise, away from home for four days.

The carriage pulls up to the palace, Jemilla reaches down and bunches up her skirt, swinging her legs off the seat and onto the stone path. She cannot wait to get these layers off, and go to sleep.

Her maids are about to help her with her dress, when a man comes running into her room, huffing. His face is red, hair stuck to the side of his head with sweat. 

“Princess, the citizens…” He gasps, leaning over to catch his breath.

“What about the citizens?” Jemilla frowns, filling with concern. 

“They are asking for you. On the edge of town, in the field.” He stammers. 

What? What the heck is this? 

Jemilla helps the maids undress her and put on more breathable clothes, struggling to quickly pull on her boots.  _ I hope Zazzalil is okay, I don’t know what I would do without her. _

Her limbs feel weak, and she grows weary of the rowdy people she can hear. There are few people in the streets, their judging eyes glaring as she passes by. She should be used to them, however this feels different. 

She gets to the edge of town, spying a crowd of people, and a tree on fire.  _ The _ tree is on fire.

“What is going on here?” She exclaims, everyone turning to face her, falling silent. Right at the front, Zazzalil stands.  _ Grinning. _

“You finally decided to show up,” She sneers, Jemilla is immediately taken aback. 

“I only got back half an hour ago, I don’t know when you were expecting.” Jemilla shoots back. “And you didn’t answer my question.”   


“Well, J-Mills. Everyone here, is sick of your bullshit.” The crowd nods in agreement as the fire climbs on the wind, Jemilla’s heart skips a beat.

“What ‘bullshit’ do you mean, Zazzalil?”

“Maybe how you force everyone to work for close to nothing, while storing loads of money so you can swoop in and save people when they need it?” Zazzalil crosses her arms, people shout in support. If only she knew how wrong she was. “Or when you need to feel important for a change.”

“We are by no means a rich Kingdom, but our prices for living are much lower than you think.” Jemilla tries to explain, pretending not to be hurt by her last comment, in spite of the falsity. 

“Are they? So why are we starving? Why are we dying? We still have a mess to clean up after that war.” 

“I don’t see you offering to help.” Jemilla feels herself getting defensive. 

“You’re the most powerful girl in the land, and you do nothing. You say you’re going to change the law, you say all these things, but you never do.”

“It’s… It’s not that simple. There is a pro-”

“It is that simple! You know, I used to look up to you.” Zazzalil cuts her off, exhaling loudly. “I was like wow. She’s got great clothes, great hair, she’s got it together! She’s a princess!”

There is a pause, Zazzalil eyes Jemilla up and down, and it burns. She becomes self conscious, more so than before. 

“But now I see what you’re really like. Afraid of change, and a scared, little… baby.”

This cut Jemilla more than she was willing to be let on.

“So we’ve decided. We don’t want, or need, your help anymore.” She declares, again, everyone chants in agreement. 

“Fine. Fine. If you don’t want my help, that’s fine.” Jemilla bites back a sob. Who knew this would hurt so much? “But don’t forget what I’ve done for you.”

“Okay?” A confused look falls over Zazzalil’s face.

“I pay for extra food. I hold off wars. I taught you how to read and write. You are making a big mistake.” Jemilla says, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Okay?” 

She looks around the silent crowd. Schwoopsie, Emberly, Tiblyn, Chorn, SB, ducker, all stare at her through rage. Heat crawls up her neck, tears well in her eyes. She runs away before she can cry. 

They don’t matter, she decides as she trudges up the hill back to the palace. What was she thinking, anyway? She never should’ve become friends with them in the first place. They are townspeople, they are below her. But if they are below her, why does it hurt so much?

She always stayed true to her word, right? They say she doesn’t because they don’t see behind the scenes, they don’t know how the law works in this Kingdom.

Zazzalil doesn’t matter, she decides as she enters her bathroom, turning on the hot water. Being her friend is a waste of time, it always was. Helping her was a waste of money that others could have used. She was always reckless, and Jemilla used to love that about her, but now she isn’t so sure. 

Jemilla strips off her clothes, and steps into the bath, her head running wild. Her thoughts are contradictory, swinging back and forth between who to blame. It was so unexpected, she had been gone four days. The last letter Zazzalil had sent her said “I’m going to miss you.” and Jemilla was stupid enough to believe it.

She had been stupid to believe everything Zazzalil had told her.

Perhaps she should have seen this coming. Especially with all that talk of wanting to be lazy. All Jemilla did was protect, she never meant to come off as controlling. She never should have let herself go the lengths she did. She would fuss, she would ban, maybe she did the wrong thing.

However, setting the tree on fire… Jemilla had told Zazzalil how much she hates it, how dangerous it is. 

Every inkling of thought stings, and more tears slip down her face. Jemilla sinks further into the bath, until her entire body and face are submerged in the warm water. She hopes it washes away her feelings. She hopes that if she scrubs hard enough, it will rid her of any (fully platonic) feelings for Zazzalil, and replace it with hate. 

God knows that doesn’t work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ouchies ://
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> feel free to leave a comment, and follow my tumblr (same username)
> 
> thank you!!
> 
> :))


	4. No Matter Where I Sleep, You Are Haunting Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running into Zazzalil in a bookstore leads to some unexpected conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya!
> 
> chapter title from "Silhouettes" by Of Monsters And Men

It’s been six years since that night, and Jemilla’s coronation to officially become the Queen is in one week. 

There have been a lot of changes. Instead of running around and helping citizens, she puts out any fires (literal and metaphorical) Zazzalil starts, but they never go face to face. 

In fact, she is sure Zazzalil hasn’t seen her properly and up close in years.

However Jemilla has definitely seen her, only from the shadows, far away. Jemilla likes to keep herself hidden or from a distance nowadays, scared of the potential insults that may be thrown at her. She knows it’s cowardly, but she can’t help it. 

Sometimes when she is down, she pulls out Zazzalil’s old letters she couldn’t bring herself to throw away, and reads them all. They remind her of a much better time, a time where she was enough, where at least one person cared about her. When she puts them away, she feels as lonely as ever, even surrounded by people. The people who work for her largely keep her company, they keep her negativity away, but they don’t _know_ her like she did.

The bookshop has become a place of comfort for her, she comes by every week to find a new story to get lost in. The seemingly endless aisles filled with pages of fiction beyond her fantasies, knowledge right at her fingertips. 

She strolls down, running her hand along the spines. Her charcoal-coloured hood is covering her peripheral vision, and can’t see who is coming up beside her to tap her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, do you know where the plant books are?” The voice is familiar, but she can’t place until she removes her hood. Her heart stops beating at the face in front of her. Zazzalil.

She looks a hell of a lot older. She hasn’t grown more than an inch taller, although her face is more mature. Her frizzy hair is only a little shorter, now pulled back into a messy ponytail. Her brown eyes widen. 

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. They’re down the back.” Jemilla points and pulls out a book from the shelf. It was one she’s read before, one she owns an extremely beat-up copy. It doesn’t harm to buy a new one, if it saves her embarrassment. 

“Thanks.” Zazzalil starts walking past, stopping herself on Jemilla’s left. “It’s been a while.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Jemilla says through clenched teeth. _Who does she think she is? Just keep your cool._

“How is the _humanitarian_?” She asks mockingly, Jemilla huffs and rolls her eyes. 

“That’s a big word, Zazz. I wonder who taught that to you.” 

This gets the reaction she wants, Zazzalil flushes, seemingly lost for a comeback.

“Just stating facts.” Jemilla raises an eyebrow. _Am I deflecting?_

“So. Your coronation is soon. Are you excited?” Zazzalil asks, her tone softer.

“Yeah.” It’s her chance to prove to others she can lead, to herself that she keep her patience, and everything under control. To Zazzalil that she can change. Before she can stop herself, she’s asking, “Why don’t you come?”

“What?” Zazzalil looks bewildered. 

“I might hate you,” Jemilla forces out of her mouth, bile rising in her throat. “But I want you to come along. Tell the others they can come too.” 

“I don’t have anything to wear,” Zazzalil frowns, one eyebrow raised. Maybe she’s hoping to find a way out of this, either way, Jemilla isn’t giving up this easy. 

“I’ll send down a seamstress. I assume you live in the same spot?” Jemilla can’t hide the smile forming on her face.

“Of course.” Zazzalil chuckles, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “I’ll see you.”

Jemilla hums in response. _What the fuck am I thinking? This will end in disaster._

* * *

  
  


Zazzalil stumbles out of the bookshop, book in hand and shocked. Jemilla. The same Jemilla she hates, who hates her, just invited her to the coronation. And she is _infuriatingly_ beautiful, how was she supposed to say no?

Jemilla’s once long gorgeous ringlets are now cut to above her shoulders, framing her perfectly round cheeks. Her black corset over her pearly-white dress showing her curves, a shame she feels the need to hide behind the hood.

Zazzalil tries to shove Jemilla out of her head, but all her old emotions are bubbling back to the surface, swirling in with the detestation. This is all so stupid, she left those feelings to burn with the tree. 

She’s always in her dreams, too. Her expression during her speech hurts at the mere memory. The way her voice shook as she spoke the truth. Her heart-wrenching sob as she ran away, as the rest of them chanted away.

Stop!

Stop thinking about her. You don’t care about her. 

She got rid of her letters a long time ago. At the time it felt good to rid them, easier to forget. She is starting to regret it.

_No!_

She nudges the door to the shop open, rushing past her mother at the till, going straight up the stairs into her room, throwing the book carelessly onto her bed. Slumping down next to it, she runs her mind over the few things she needs to do.

She has to mind the shop while her mother runs some errands, she prays the seamstress Jemilla promised to send doesn’t come during that time. She hates running the store, although it does give her an excuse to sit and do nothing, especially on the slow days. They sell food, mostly bread and jams, among other goods. It’s boring compared to the days where she goes hunting. 

Slow days also grant her the opportunity to plan her next rebellion, every time wondering if Jemilla will finally see her side of things. Because to her, change is simple. 

Soon enough she hears a knock on the door, and her name being called downstairs again. She groans, peeling herself off the bed.

“Someone is here for you!” Her Mother shouts.

“I know, I’m coming!” She skips down the steps, to see a woman standing at the door, tools in hand. “Come inside, we can go down to the back.” 

The woman nods, slipping past and following Zazzalil. The room is large, boxes and crates scattered around the corners, a few shelves... overall, it is pretty empty. 

“So. Dress for the coronation?” She asks, placing her equipment onto the floor, measuring tape in hand. “Arms up.”

Zazzalil lifts her arms into a T, feeling the tape wrap around her waist. She tenses at the feeling, not a fan of strangers touching her. This looks like it’s going to take forever, and she still has so much to do today… fuck it.

One week later, Zazzalil puts on the dress with the help of her mother, who tells her she looks beautiful. And she does. It’s deep burgundy, jewels line the long sleeves. Golden thread holds the seams, matching her simple necklace. It doesn’t have many layers, extremely convenient. 

Before she walks out the door, she buckles the belt that holds her sheath around her. She brings her sword everywhere, a coronation is no exception, above all now Jemilla’s involved. Feigning a brave face, she leaves.

_I’m coming for you Jemilla._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooh!!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> please leave a comment and feel free to follow my tumblr (same username)
> 
> thank you!!


	5. How Long Have You Known?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations are made...

Today is the day. The day the crown will be lowered onto her head, where she will finally be Queen. 

The dress she wears is a similar colour to the one she wore when she bumped into Zazzalil, only it’s longer and sparklier with no hood to hide under, and a cape dragging behind her. Her hair is too short to hold a fancy style, only the front is pulled back by two plaits, joining at the back for a half-up-half-down. 

In less than an hour many people, not just from her Kingdom, will be gathered to watch the ceremony. The thought of it makes her excited, but also churns her stomach. They might hate her. They might throw her down and take over, like they did in her old Kingdom.

She can’t let that happen. She won’t let that happen. 

Voices drift from the Throne Room into the church, Jemilla is starting to get a headache that isn’t from the perfume she was forced to put on. She’s heard terrible rumours about her, and as much as she loves to hear criticism, this felt a lot more personal. And as much as she tries to ignore it, when you are told something enough, you begin to believe it. 

Even though she knows she will be a good leader, she still feels she needs to prove something, no thanks to Zazzalil’s behaviour back then. 

The walking down the aisle is the easy bit. The choir sings a song she can’t understand, people stare her down, but it isn’t half as bad as she thought… Are they smiling at her?

She faces the priest, who nods. She looks down to the cushion where the crown jewels lay, bowing her head so he can slip the tiara onto her head. Once it’s secure, she lifts herself back up again, taking the jewels into her hands. She turns to the people who are now standing, lifting her chin confidently.

The priest starts reciting, Jemilla zones out for a moment, to think about the future. To reflect on her plans, goals… and Zazzalil. How she is going to deal with her. Firmer punishments, perhaps community service and a lot of it. Fining or throwing her in jail seems like a stretch, though. 

Speaking of the devil, Jemilla catches Zazzalil’s eye. Without breaking contact she whispers something to Keeri and winks, a wicked grin spreading across her face. Jemilla feels a shiver run down her spine, and for someone usually so good at keeping her cool, her patience is draining. 

“Queen Jemilla of Driftford.” The Priest concludes, the audience repeats it back with a round of applause. Jemilla can feel her heart swelling with happiness, the only thing that may throw her off are the slow claps and smirks of Zazzalil. 

Parties are something Jemilla had missed once Molag died. There hadn’t been any since, no-one in the Palace ever offered throw one. Of course she had been to other Kingdom’s, and been to her fair share of Balls, danced with many people. 

She stands at the top of the room, looking down on the bustling people, waltzing to the orchestra music. She wishes to be down there with them, but she has no-one to dance with. Well, no-one she wants to dance with. Plenty have offered, she turns them down, only one person subconsciously in mind. 

Out of nowhere, the music stops. The room fills with loud voices, people parting down the centre. Right in the middle, stands Zazzalil. She walks down the ballroom, right on the path to a horrified Jemilla.  _ What in god's name is she doing? _

“Is this really the leader you want?” She starts, her words echoing off the tall walls. Jemilla can already feel panic crawling through her body, but she keeps a stoic face. “A leader who doesn’t do anything to make change?”

“Zazzalil…” Jemilla quivers, a sorry attempt to put a stop to this.

“Someone who… is afraid?” 

“Zazzalil, I demand you to stop.” She raises her voice, striding forward. 

“Afraid of conflict? Of a little fight?” Zazzalil smirks and tilts her head sassily.  _ She is so cute. No! Focus! _

“A fight? Is that what this is?” Her eyes fall on the belt around Zazzalil’s dress, the sword barely hidden. A sudden confidence surges through her bloodstream, her eyebrow raises. “Because we can fight, if that’s what you want.”

“Maybe I do. It’ll be like old times.” She says. “You know, where I used to beat you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Jemilla unclasps her cape, letting in fall to the floor, turning to the butler. “Fetch my sword.”

The room is eerily quiet, barely a whisper is heard. The butler returns quickly with the sword and hands it straight to Jemilla, who struts to Zazzalil, whose own sword is drawn. They stare each down, lunging in preparation. Jemilla strikes first.

The two immediately fall into rhythm, a dance they had perfected long ago. In which the only music they have is their weapons, clashing together deafeningly. Going back and forth, Jemilla can feel herself wearing out. Their fight is becoming one sided, and she can’t push away the feeling. Before she can register, she slips, letting out a yelp of pain as she hits the floor. 

Zazzalil drops her arm to the side, dragging the blade along the floor. “You put up a good fight for a Princess.” She remarks. 

Jemilla tucks her chin to her chest, blowing out her breath.  _ She can’t win. She cannot win this, you have to keep going. _ Regrouping the strength she has left, she grips her sword tighter.

“I think you forget my mother was a war master.” Jemilla comments, gradually standing up. “And as much as I intend to keep peace, I think self defence is a good skill to have.”

Now it's Zazzalil’s turn to be shocked, Jemilla swinging at her, it’s a miracle she retaliates in time. Her mind is fogged by the past, and adrenaline pumps through her veins with every hit, rage for every time she was betrayed. With a grunt and a little force, Zazzalil is thrown to the floor, her sword knocked out of her hand. She is panting and flushed red from the exercise. It’s over, Jemilla won. 

She holds her sword up to Zazzalil’s chest, however as she peers down, she spies something hanging from her neck. A gold chain, with a little golden heart. The same one she gave Zazzalil all those years ago. The anger clears her mind, allowing her true feelings to surface. 

“You know, I don’t hate you.” Jemilla says, lowering her sword, holding out her free hand. Zazzalil warily takes it, hauling herself up. The intensity in their eyes matches the tension that surrounds them. “In fact… I’m in love with you.”

_ Don’t make me regret this. _

“How long have you known?” She asks, her voice hushed, merely a whisper. They’re so close, their foreheads almost touch. 

“I think,” Jemilla’s breath hitches, a smile making its way to her face. “I’ve always known.”

“Yeah?” She nods vigariously. “Me too,”

Jemilla would have burst into tears, instead pressing her lips to Zazzalil’s. The weapon is dropped to the floor with a crash, so that Jemilla can wrap her arms around her neck as Zazzalil slips her hands onto her waist. The room around them is forgotten, but it must be a strange sight to see, the queen and a commoner kissing in the middle of the ballroom. 

“We should probably move,” Jemilla chuckles once she breaks away, Zazzalil beams. “Wouldn’t want to disturb the guests,”

“We can continue this later,” Zazzalil murmurs and Jemilla’s face burns red.  _ Damn Zazz. _

The rest of the party flies by and soon enough Jemilla is up in her bedroom, Zazzalil resting on her body, her head on her chest. Her weight is oddly grounding, a strange sense of protection. She isn’t in her dress anymore, wearing one of Jemilla’s nightgowns, a lot more comfortable. Jemilla twirls Zazzalil’s frizzy hair, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. 

“All these years of knowing you, and this is my first time up here.” Zazzalil comments, nestling further into Jemilla’s embrace. 

“One of the very few rules I had, no guests allowed.” She replies with a snort. “But now I’m the Queen, and I make the rules.”

Zazzalil doesn’t respond, only a sigh followed by brief silence. “I, uh…. What was it like without me?”

“Lonely.” Jemilla says. “Really lonely. Like I was surrounded by people but no-one was quite the same.”

“Hmm, well now that you’ve got me, you’ll never be alone again.”

“Promise?” Jemilla tilts her head to look into Zazzalil’s eyes.

“Promise.”

Zazzalil kept her promise, and through both of their efforts, the Kingdom grew to become the most powerful in the land. They get married a few years later, adopting two children. With every new day, they wake up in each other's arms.

Jemilla’s never been happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed the last chapter!!
> 
> i'm sorry if it feels a little rushed at the end, i couldn't figure out what i wanted ://
> 
> please leave a comment, and feel free to follow my tumblr (same username)
> 
> thank you for reading, have a fab day :D

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> please leave kudos and a comment, they are much appreciated.
> 
> feel free to follow my tumblr (the same username)
> 
> thank you so much!!


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